


Seven Wonders

by dadvans



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 13:32:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dadvans/pseuds/dadvans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles sees Beacon Hills through ancient parallels.  Derek thinks he's cursed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Wonders

**The Great Pyramids**

On the edge of town off El Camino Real there’s an occult bookstore in an old strip mall called The Great Pyramids.  The windows are covered with sheer purple curtains and the exterior is lined with mountain ash. The interior is musty and smells like the five million cats the owner seems to think are necessary.  To be seen going inside is considered social suicide, and Stiles is just lucky he has no real dignity to lose just because Derek freaking Hale can’t cross the threshold and get his own damn book. 

 

There is a mousy old woman wearing a purple alpaca vest and turtleneck and tube socks that are rolled over her pants sitting at a desk under _literally a mountain of cats,_ and no one else inside.  Stiles clears his throat and she looks up from her book towards him with a discomforting eagerness.

 

“I’m uh, looking for a book on curses,” Stiles says, “my friend thinks he’s cursed.”

 

Stiles had tried telling Derek that making bad life decisions did not equal being cursed, but that just lead to being slammed into another wall, and whatever Derek needs to tell himself to assert his Alpha status and not kill Stiles is fine.

 

“What kind of curse?”  The storekeeper asks with equally unsettling enthusiasm.

 

“Aren’t there like, general bad ones?  Maybe you have a book on Curses 101?”  Stiles suggests, and the blank look he receives in return makes him feel all of five years old.  Eventually she leads him to a small spellcasting section of the store, but she’s clearly lost her conviction with his disinterest, and all he finds in the section are recipes for love potions involving animal parts.  After flipping through book three, which seems pretty biased towards the use of newt’s eye and puppy dog tails, he decides to cut his losses and beat it.  There’s only so much violent coercion can get him to help anymore, and the storekeeper is looking at him like she wants to turn him into another one of her cats.

**The Victorian Gardens**

Derek seems somewhat devastated when Stiles tells him that he couldn’t find anything at the freaky bookstore that would alleviate his self-prescribed curse.  It is actually alarming, seeing another expression on Derek’s face besides constipated, everything going weak and soft after delivering the news.  Stiles tries to write it off as Derek being bothered by the feline smell that Stiles can’t seem to wash away, but the semblance sticks with him through the week.

 

Stiles finds himself at the florists the next Saturday, buying some flowers for what will be another anniversary of his mother’s passing.  He gets her bouquet of lilacs and magnolias, which his dad always tells him was her favorite.

 

He knows from experience, there aren’t flowers to bring your family back from the dead, or flowers that relieve curses (because even if there are such things as werewolves, Stiles refuses to believe in curses), and there are no flowers that fix what is just a bad lot in life.  Instead Stiles complains for forty-five minutes to the florist and leaves with a second bouquet of oxeye daisies and syringa.  He realizes how lame it is, but Derek seems to speak herb after waxing poetic on wolfsbane, so the flower arrangement finds itself laid across the crumbling porch of the Hale house by evening.  The purple and yellows spread out to read: _patience, you will be happy yet_.

 

**A Temple for Artemis**

Stiles shouldn’t feel self conscious in a graveyard, but he’s outgrown his old suit jacket by a couple of inches, and his dad hasn’t had the time to buy him a new one, so he tugs at the short sleeves and raised hem while he talks to his mom’s headstone. 

 

“Growth spurt,” he tells her, “Drinking my milk, laying off the coffee, trying to make dad drink more decaf.”

 

His dad elbows him lightly, but then urges him to go on.  Stiles covers the events of the past year, excluding werewolves, which he tells her about when he’s not here with his dad.  He’s coming exceedingly less the older he gets, so he stays longer when he does and tries not to notice how her grave is starting to wear.  The lilacs and magnolias help.

 

Finally his dad squeezes his hand firm and deep into his shoulder, and Stiles knows his time is up.  During the end of these visits, Stiles’ dad takes a few private moments with his mom, to tell her what a pain Stiles has been or to whisper sweet nothings, Stiles will never know.  All he knows that if he ever loves someone as his parents loved each other, he’d want the same.  So he kisses the top of her grave and turns away, telling his dad he’ll wait by the car.

 

He’s shrugging off his blazer and tugging at his tie when he sees Derek.  Derek doesn’t wear suits to the cemetery, but he does wear his attitude and for once Stiles doesn’t blame him.  Stiles plans on leaving him alone (for once in his life, today is a day for pestering his mom only), but Derek sees him and raises his head in invitation, so Stiles jogs over.  Derek stands over a fresh headstone that reads:

 

_Laura Hale_

_With Shafts of Gold_

_1986 – 2011_

“I was finally able to have it fitted,” Derek says after a second.  “She was like Artemis, you see.”

 

It’s polished white marble, illuminated by the mid-day sun, the words neatly cut with what could possibly be a family crest underneath.  Stiles wants to say something stupid like, _it’s gorgeous, she would love it_ , but he doesn’t know that.  He never met Laura. 

 

So he says, “Goddess of the Moon?”

 

Derek hums, and for the two of them this is probably one of their better conversations, so Stiles takes it and settles for the silence between them.  Eventually though, Derek adds, “Also the hunter.  The tamer of the wild.  She was always so much more human than me.”

 

Before he can stop himself, Stiles says, “Derek, everyone is more human than you.”

 

It is painfully inappropriate, and what way to celebrate the fitting of your dead sister’s headstone than by cracking some skulls against it?  Because Stiles is anticipating it, he just rightfully deserves it.  Instead, Derek snorts.  “Yeah.  Laura would agree.”

 

The conversation goes from painfully inappropriate to just painful.  Stiles wants to hug him, or touch his arm, but he can’t decide on which would be the least awkward or most comforting, so he stares at his shoes instead.

 

“My dad and I, uh, we have a ceremonial brunch every year.  We can always make room for one more, you know,” Stiles offers.

 

“No,” Derek says.  He reaches into his pocket and takes one of the oxeye daisies Stiles left the day before, placing it at her grave.  “I know it doesn’t have the right meaning, but she loved daisies.  She loved bright things.”

 

 _Laura Hale, with shafts of gold,_ Stiles repeats over and over in his head.  He leaves soon afterwards, but can’t help thinking about her.  He would’ve liked her.  And then it strikes him that his mom would’ve loved Derek, would’ve loved getting a rise out of him.  He’s not sure why, but that’s what hurts most.

**Zeus Tower Hotel Rooftop**

The second tallest building in Beacon Hills is the old Zeus Tower Hotel, standing at a not-so-mighty five stories after town legislature from the nineteenth century limited building height to under that of the Feed & Supply mill.  What it lacks in height it overcompensates with creepy art deco architecture and a lightning rod half the building’s size.  Stiles normally avoids it like the plague; the restaurant downstairs has bad service and every time he’s been in the elevator he swears he can hear the cable snapping.  In fact, he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for—once again—Derek Hale and his persistent ability to suck at life.  Between the bookstore and the hotel, Stiles is beginning to think maybe they’re _both_ cursed.

 

Derek is tied to the lightning rod on the roof, because the hunters that caught him saw the storm warning for the weekend and got a little creative.  There hasn’t been the crack of lightning or roll of thunder yet, but in the warm, hard downpour it could start at any minute.  By the time Stiles has run up all five stories (he is not going to die in that elevator, not today) with some bolt cutters and a tazer, Derek looks like he’s half drowned.  No hunters in sight.

 

“Where’s the pack?” He shouts over the slap of rain against concrete, and Stiles rolls his eyes.  _Rude_.  Scott is still having his Not- _My_ -Alpha crisis over Derek, and has been dragging Isaac down with him, which means Stiles is starting to clock in some serious life saving overtime between all of the contentious werewolf politics.

 

“You owe me,” Stiles says loudly, cutting away the chain and pulling out the silver spikes that have embedded themselves into Derek’s abdomen against the lightning rod. 

 

The hunters choose this moment to descend, and even the continued downpour can’t stop how fast and how ugly the scene gets.  Two hunters get away, but not without a few claw marks worth of warnings, and one, well—Stiles has a lot of blood on him, and none of it is his. 

 

Stiles and Derek stand on the roof of the hotel trying to brainstorm body disposal when the first strike of lightning hits, and Stiles turns to Derek and says, “You really, _really_ owe me.”

**The Mausoleum**

There are actually buckets on the floor of the Hale house to catch rain, and Stiles feels like he’s in a black and white cartoon from the Great Depression.  Derek had offered him a place to get dry and a set of clean clothes, but Stiles doubts either if Derek’s home has less of a roof and more of a giant skylight on top.

 

“You smell like wet cat,” Derek tells him.

 

Stiles grimaces.  “Still?”

 

He’s lost track of the times he’s been here, but it’s different in the calm.  When his adrenaline fades he notices more details coming into view, patches of romantic designs peaking out from underneath the burn and rot.  It’s a wonder Derek can live in a place like this all the time, breathing in the memories and ashes of his family.  The house is so in ruin, and Stiles briefly considers how much of Derek’s insurance money has gone to just keeping it from being condemned.  The greys and blacks are haunting, and it feels like a mausoleum, _the Mausoleum at Hale-carnassus_ , Stiles’ mind jokes, immediately followed by a shiver.  It would be funny if it weren’t depressingly accurate.

 

Derek tosses Stiles a t-shirt two sizes too big that must belong to Peter and a pair of sweats, because Stiles would drown all over again in anything else.  He pulls the soaked t-shirt off, and it sticks to his bones and stretches in odd ways, and as he reaches for the fresh one he notices he’s being watched.  In that moment both he and Derek look a little hungry, and Stiles’ throat goes dry.  Derek continues eyeing him as Stiles pulls the other shirt over his head, paying no mind to his own wet clothes.

 

“You said I owe you,” Derek says, when the shuffle of fabric fails to fill the void of conversation.  “Really, _really_ owe you.”

 

It sounds like a proposition.  Stiles won’t take the bait.  Not yet.

 

“Yeah, you know, while the creepy bookstore and depressing cemetery had their charms, helping you aim a body five stories down into a dumpster is really not my idea of a good time.  If you want to keep me around you have to treat me nice.”

 

“Treat you nice,” Derek repeats slowly, and sometimes Stiles thinks he’s not a werewolf, he’s a robot.  But then he turns to pull back the hole-riddled blanket he calls a curtain to stare at the rain and hums.  “I can do that.”

 

**The Beacon Point Lighthouse**

Beacon Hills gets its namesake from the century-old lighthouse that sits where the hills roll straight into a sharp coastline.  The shore is more of a mouth at the edge of the forest that used to swallow ships whole.  Sometimes at low tide there will be a mast or two peaking through the churn of angry waves, a reminder of days before the Beacon was in place, and when Stiles and Scott were younger, they would sneak under the safety fence and throw rocks over the edge and Scott would say, _I bet, I bet there’s dead bodies down there_ , and Stiles would stay awake all night thinking about old sea skeletons crawling up the cliffs with his rocks in their teeth, ready to spit them back out at him.

 

Stiles tells Derek this when Derek drives the two of them up there a few nights later after the storm breaks, pulling him by the hand under the ramshackle safety fence.  The masts are hidden, but the memories are still there.  Derek smiles when Stiles scrunches his nose, and Stiles’ stomach stirs with the sea. 

 

“Don’t tell me the shoreline of death doesn’t completely freak you out,” Stiles says flatly. “Or did you just come up here to kill me?  Oh my god, you’re totally going to kill me.  This is a murder-date.”

 

“That would be quite a way to go,” Derek replies, which doesn’t help at all.  It looks like he’s going to laugh and they might as well be standing under a blue moon, because weirder things have happened.  “I’m not going to kill you, Stiles. I just don’t understand how anyone could be afraid of a place like this.”

 

Stiles looks around, tries not to get the light of the beacon or the moon in his eyes, tries not to spin over the edge on his own accord.  The sea almost shushes him silent in the quiet of the night, and when he looks back all the edges are gone from the lines of Derek’s face.  “Derek Hale, did you take me to your secret hideout?”

 

“Maybe,” Derek says, “It’s not really secret though.  Hales have been here as long as the lighthouse.  We always thought it was safe.  It reminded us of the moon.”

 

There’s a story there Stiles wishes he could decipher, something that could be read between pulses in Derek’s veins, about when the Hale family had no surname and were more wolf than human, had heard from the buffalo about a different breed of man coming, a man who hunted and killed for sport.  These men had eyes in the front of their face like any other predator, but they left their meat to waste behind them and rejected the wilderness.  Instead they built towers that shone like the moon and fought with their backs against each other and survived.  The wolves always admired man’s tenacity to survive, to protect, and Stiles can see that the lighthouse is something both halves of Derek can understand, and for a breath or two he can be calm.

 

Stiles inhales sharply through his nose, nods, and sits down.  The grass is soft and the soil is loose.  He looks up at Derek expectantly, as if to say, _well if this doesn’t kill me_ , and Derek sits down next to him.  For a few hours, Stiles manages to be quiet, as they watch the lens of the lighthouse move round and round.

 

**Colossus**

Stiles wakes up cold, covered in moisture from the ocean and night, dewy and sandy in all the wrong places.  The sun is starting to rise.  He dreamt of a hand slowly petting his scalp, and considers _that_ with a weary eye to the right.  Derek is still up next to him, eyes wide open and face unreadable; somewhat calmer in the fading light of the moon and spin of the beacon.

 

“You look deep in thought,” Stiles says through a mouthful of sand and ugh, gross.  Derek regards him with a deep breath and his head tilted to the side.  “Oh my god, do you still think you’re cursed?”

 

“Not me, no,” Derek says, then pauses. “My species, maybe.  We were born to be on the run, hunting and hunted, and I’m just ill-equipped to deal with that.  Laura always protected me, I’ve never been very good at returning the favor or helping myself.”

 

And for a second time in recent history, there is something new on his face besides a hardened scowl, lines of guilt and guilt and guilt.  It occurs to Stiles as quickly as he says it: “You’re Colossus.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’ve been seeing this town in ancient parallels all week,” Stiles replies, in an attempt to translate the inner workings of his mind.  He pushes himself up to his elbows.  “And you’re the Colossus.  You know, standing over the rest of us, greater than man, and then twenty-something odd years in an earthquake hits and you crumble and self-destruct and we’re left to admire the remains of your legs where something better once stood.”

 

“What are you talking about, Stiles.”  Derek says it like they’re speaking different languages.

 

“I’m speaking in metaphors, it’s like second grade English,” Stiles replies.  “I’m saying you shouldn’t let the natural course of things knock you down like earthquakes did Colossus.”

 

There’s a moment of silence that’s filled by the hush of the wind and grind of Derek’s jaw and crash of the waves five feet away and a hundred feet down.  “Is this you nicely telling me I’m a wreck?”

 

“God no,” Stiles says.  There’s a gap between him and Derek, and he quickly moves to fill it so he can whisper into Derek’s mouth, “I’m saying you’re a wonder.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> AKA that one time i tried to write fic in under 3,000 words with no porn and no swearing. thank you helen for the read through, and dealing with my spastic self ♥
> 
> i am [hellomorningzoo](http://hellomorningzoo.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


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